The Adventure of the Draconic Detective
by Olrendis
Summary: CumberSmaug, the beloved ex-dragon consulting detective, seeks out his hobbit doctor friend BilboJohn to help him solve a critical, yet long-overlooked mystery in the Shire. Was it accidental, or the Shire's first case of murder? This reunion of friends and onetime enemies unleashes events that will shape the destiny of Middle-earth... Sherlock/Smaug and Bilbo/John. No slash.
1. Meeting of the Ways

I: Meeting of the Ways

Thirty-eight years had passed since Mr. Bilbo Baggins of Bag End returned from his unexpected journey. Since then he had more or less settled contentedly back into his peaceful, solitary existence, but adventure had changed him. He kept up his new, outlandish acquaintances and dabbled in other queer, unhobbitlike practices such as writing poetry.

In addition, a certain restlessness came upon him from time to time, especially in the fall. Despite the perils and discomforts and hardships along the way, and his near-constant complaints and fond memories of home, there was a part of him had enjoyed every minute of his adventure. Truth be told, he missed it.

Which is why, when the Quick Post delivered a most unusual note to Bag End one morning in late October, he seized his walking-stick, and after a moment's hesitation, took Sting down from above the mantelpiece and buckled it on.

_Brandy Hall.  
Come at once if convenient.  
If inconvenient, come anyway.  
Could be dangerous._

_S_

* * *

As he came over the Brandywine Bridge, Bilbo saw a Big Person stooped over further up the riverbank. He was by no means a hobbit; his height put that out of the question immediately, as did the rest of his appearance. He wore a long, dark, smoky cloak that seemed to shimmer with red and gold underneath when the light caught it just so. He straightened as Bilbo approached, cast a keen-eyed glance of piercing blue at him for a long moment, and then returned his attention to the riverbed. He adjusted his dark blue scarf and wrapped his cloak tighter around himself.

Bilbo frowned, started to speak, and frowned again.

"They washed up on the shoreline this morning. Not a terribly deep or fast-moving river, but of course you people are all so _short_." He snorted, and smoke hissed out from his nostrils. "Don't any of your hobbits learn to swim?"

Puzzlement and incredulity flickered across Bilbo's face, and his eyes widened. He knew that voice. It had been close to forty years since he had last heard it, but he couldn't be mistaken. And yet…

"Sherlock?"

"Obviously."

Bilbo stared at him for a long moment, frowning. "But you're…"

"Supposed to be dead? I was. Back now." The man who had been the dragon Smaug glanced down at himself, and brushed some grass off his cloak. "It could have been worse. Miss the wings, like the coat." He drew a long-stemmed pipe from an inside pocket, and lit it with a jet of flame. "I do rather enjoy this, though. Pipe-weed? Genius." He inhaled deeply, and blew a smoke ring out over the water. "John, I need you to—"

"Forty years, Sherlock." His voice shook with an anger that surprised even himself. Smaug turned, an eyebrow raised. "Forty years, and you couldn't even bother to tell me you're alive. Now you want to just pick right back up as if nothing happened, as if you didn't get shot and fall to your death in fire and water."

The look of puzzlement on Smaug's face would have been priceless at any other moment. "John, I—"

He was silenced abruptly by the sudden crack of his old friend's walking stick against his shins, and tumbled to the ground under the unexpected blows. "_Forty. Years_._ Sherlock."_ He added indignantly, almost as an afterthought, "And you nearly roasted me!"

Smaug seized the end of the walking stick suddenly in an iron grip and rolled his eyes. "Really, John, you're going to hold _that_ against me? It was nothing personal."

"You singed the hair off my feet!" He struggled to wrest the stick back, but the ex-dragon was too strong for him. "And that doesn't explain where you've been all this time."

"_Please_, you were never in any _real_ danger." Smaug waved a hand dismissively as he rose to his feet. "It was all part of the game."

"This _isn't_ a game, Sherlock," Bilbo said severely. He still tugged halfheartedly at the walking stick, but Smaug pulled it out of his grip with careless grace. "Why did you come back?"

"Not a game? Of course it was." He twirled the stick like a baton between his long thin fingers. "Do you really think I'd have allowed myself such an obvious weakness like that unless I wanted you to see it?" Bilbo opened his mouth and closed it again with a frown, and Smaug chuckled. "As vain as we dragons are, you really think _I_ wouldn't have noticed? Child's play."

Finally Bilbo answered, "What do you need me for?"

"The most renowned burglar in all of Middle-earth?" Smaug waved a hand at the warren of hobbit-holes that filled the large hill further up the road. "I need you to talk to some of your kinsmen. They don't seem to care for me, even in this much-moderated guise."

Bilbo had half a mind to refuse, but finally he sighed. "Oh very well. What do you want me to ask them?"

"Two hobbits drowned in the river last night. Ask the usual questions. It's important to establish whether this was an accident, suicide..." The dragon smiled, fingering his pipe. "Or murder."

"M-murder?" Bilbo stammered, shocked. "Not here. Nobody has intentionally killed anybody else here… ever, to my knowledge."

"Nobody has ever been _caught,_" Smaug corrected him. "But you've never had me before, either." He tossed the walking stick back to the hobbit, who caught it without thinking, still frowning. "Off you pop, then."

The hobbit sighed. "I don't like this." He looked up at Smaug, at the hill before them, sighed again, and started down the path.

* * *

The dragon watched as his old friend and onetime adversary plodded off toward Brandy Hall, and allowed himself a small smile. The case itself was trivial, but it was exactly what he wanted. It provided at once both a distraction from and an explanation for his reappearance that was free of such quagmires as emotion. He could never tell the hobbit the true reason for his supposed death, or for his return. He turned back out to face the river again, drew a long pull from his pipe and exhaled, closing his eyes. For the moment, this Shire of John's was a little piece of heaven.


	2. The Wisdom of a Child

II: The Wisdom of a Child

Bilbo was in the midst of a group of opinionated Brandybucks, all arguing in hushed voices their differing opinions. Many of them were relations of his, of differing closeness, including the hobbits in question.

"Say what you like, but Primula knew what she was about. She'd been boating before."

"That was quite a dinner the Master gave last night, and Drogo'd had more than most."

"My Maisie said she heard raised voices carrying across the water."

"Nonsense, Drogo and Primula were perfectly agreeable to each other at dinner."

The room suddenly fell silent, and Bilbo turned to notice a hobbit-child with large, thoughtful blue eyes standing in the doorway. He looked troubled, and said, "Why is everyone so quiet?"

"That's Drogo and Primula's boy," someone whispered to Bilbo, and then he understood. No one answered him, and the child looked so forlorn that Bilbo was moved with pity. He pushed past the others and took the child by the hand kindly. "Hullo, Frodo my lad. What do you say to a nice walk before dinner?"

The little hobbit perked up a bit, and nodded. "Thank you, Uncle Bilbo."

Bilbo led him through the maze of tunnels that was Brandy Hall, and emerged outside as the sun was beginning to dip below the horizon. He steered the lad away from the river path and toward the path that led along the Hedge instead, wanting to avoid both Smaug and the uncomfortable subjects that the river might introduce. Along the way he picked up a short, stout stick about a foot in length and trimmed its branches with a pocket-knife. It served as a passable walking stick for his young companion, and little Frodo tramped happily along the path beside him.

"Goodness, Frodo, you've sprouted up quicker than a mushroom overnight," Bilbo commented as he watched his young cousin. "How many birthdays have you had?"

"Well, I was twelve in September," the youngster said shyly.

"_Is_ your birthday in September? Why, that's when _my_ birthday is!" Bilbo exclaimed. "On the twenty-second, in fact."

"So is mine!" Frodo announced, becoming excited himself.

"In-deed? Well, young Frodo, we shall have to celebrate together from now on." He smiled kindly down at his little cousin. "Next year we shall have a _magnificent_ party for all your young friends, and there will be food and presents and games... perhaps riddles," he reflected after a moment.

"Riddles? Trivial." The two hobbits turned to find the tall, cloaked former dragon watching them from the shadow of a tree. "A child? Why did you bring me a child? Did he see something?"

"Really, Sherlock," Bilbo turned on him, annoyed. "Now is not the time–"

"No time like the present." Smaug turned his piercing gaze on the lad who was watching him with big, solemn eyes, curious and unafraid. He took in everything about him in a glance–shadows under the eyes with just a hint of redness, he'd been crying; clothing haphazard and whimsical as if he'd dressed himself; just a touch of the determination, something about the chin and set of the mouth, that he shared with the elder hobbit at his side. Smaug knelt down and stretched out a hand. "Here, now, what's your name?"

"My name is Frodo Baggins," the child said distinctly. "Who are you?"

The question gave him pause, and he frowned, considering the subject for several moments. "I am... an old friend of your uncle Bilbo." He stood abruptly, and turned on his heel. "I'll join you at Bag End later tonight."

Confused, Bilbo watched as the dragon disappeared into the gathering gloom. "Well, Frodo," he said at last, "I suppose we'd better be getting back for dinner." He smiled in spite of himself. "I must say, it's been some time since I dined at the Master's table. I'm rather looking forward to it."

The lad nodded, but without the eagerness one might expect from a growing hobbit-child. He was quiet for most of the short walk back, then suddenly said in a somber tone, "Something happened to my mum and dad, didn't it, Uncle Bilbo."

Caught off guard, Bilbo stammered, "Er... well, that is to say... What gave you that impression?"

"They weren't here this morning, and everybody has been acting funny." Frodo frowned. "And you're here. Everybody says you're crazy, Uncle Bilbo... but I like you."

Bilbo wrinkled his nose at that. _Crazy, am I?_

But the child went on talking. "Nobody else will tell me what's going on. But I think you're here to help. Are you?"

"Er, yes, I suppose I am," Bilbo said slowly, thinking about what Smaug had told him.

"I am glad." The little hobbit trotted off down the road, and Bilbo smiled in spite of himself. Little will keep a hobbit-child down for long, especially with a meal on hand.

* * *

The dragon strode into the darkness, his cloak swirling around him. The child had raised a question which, for once, left him momentarily without an answer. Who was he? He was not Smaug the Magnificent any longer. Nor did the name which John had for him, Sherlock, entirely apply. He felt a part of him lying still in the ruin of fire and ash and roiling waves, clinging to existence, and it was disorienting. The mental clarity he strove for, the certainty about everyone he encountered, vanished when he gazed upon his own visage in the mirror of the Brandywine, and it irked him. He refilled his pipe and lit it again with a jet of flaming breath.

He had a feeling it was going to be another three pipe problem. But this time the problem was him.


	3. Foreshadow and Memory

III: Foreshadow and Memory

Bilbo arrived back at home very late that evening to find his hole in disarray. Drawers and cupboards had been rummaged through, books and parchments were scattered across tables and other miscellaneous furniture, and the man who had been Smaug was seated in front of the fire, staring into it moodily. When he entered, the dragon said, "How can you stand this place, John? It's so cramped and cluttered about. I can't pace, I can't move…" he shifted restlessly, and his fingers twitched. "And where's your blasted pipe-weed?"

The hobbit looked indignant. "Well _I_ think it's lovely." He fumbled in his pocket, produced his pipe-weed pouch, and tossed it to him. "I thought you had some?"

"Used it all on the way here." He lit the pipe, exhaling softly, almost reverently, a smoke-ring. He sank back into the chair, a chair, Bilbo noted, that Gandalf often used when he visited, whether to accommodate his longer legs or for some other unknown motive. "What did you learn?"

"Er, well, there's a lot of disagreement about what actually _happened_," Bilbo replied uncomfortably. "But the general consensus is that it must have been an accident."

"Details, John. I want to know what was said." Smaug closed his eyes, settling deeper into the chair. "Also about the couple themselves. Who were they, what were they like, where are they from, why did they go boating?"

"Give us a chance," the hobbit protested. "Their names were Drogo Baggins and Primula Brandybuck Baggins. Cousins of mine, if you want to know. Drogo was my second cousin—our grandfathers being brothers, you understand. And Primula was my first cousin, due to her mother being my aunt. She was the youngest daughter of the Old Took…"

"Enough! I want to know about _them_, not your family tree!" The dragon's eyes suddenly glinted in the firelight, and Bilbo shrank against the shelf where he'd been attempting to restore some order to the room. One hand strayed to his pocket. The fire went out of Smaug's eyes, and he said in more normal tones, "If you would kindly stick to the relevant facts, John."

Bilbo let out a shaky laugh. "For a moment I thought you were going to roast me again." He drew out his own pipe and filled it, and fumbled for a match until the dragon supplied a spark with which to light it.

"Please. I have better control than _that_." Smaug settled back into his chair. "Now tell me."

"Well," the hobbit began cautiously. "No one saw anything, and no one seems to agree. Some say they argued, some say they didn't. It's a fact that they went boating after dinner, and of course the Brandybucks' table is one of the best in the Shire." He smiled at the memory of the feast he'd just partaken in. "General opinion is that his weight must have sunk the boat."

The dragon blew a smoke ring at the ceiling. "But…?"

"But," Bilbo admitted reluctantly. "There are a few who claim they heard raised voices, and that she must have pushed him in, and he pulled her in after him." His tone hardened. "But I don't believe it! Primula was a very nice girl, as I remember, if a bit silly. And anyhow, such things simply aren't done here in the Shire."

"John, John, John." Smaug shook his head wearily. "Your hobbits are such innocents. But _you_ know better. After what you've seen from here to the Mountain and back again you can't possibly be so naïve."

"Is it too much to believe that we're good, simple folk who follow the Rules because we want to?" Bilbo shot back, his temper rising.

"If that's so, why did you lie about your little trinket?" The dragon's eyes burned with a sudden cold fire, and Bilbo grew pale.

"My… my what?" he stammered weakly.

"Don't be ridiculous." Smaug tossed a red-bound volume on the table before the fire, and Bilbo's initials glinted on the cover.

"My diary!" Bilbo cried, and sprang forward.

"Quite an interesting read," Smaug continued, rising, but ducking his head to narrowly avoid a beam. "A present, was it? That's very interesting."

"What does it matter to you how I got it," Bilbo snapped, clutching his diary to his chest and glaring at the dragon. "It's mine."

"I'd wondered, of course, how you managed to elude my sight in the mountain. I could smell you, and I could hear you, but I couldn't see you." He smiled, and to Bilbo's eyes it was the terrible, ancient, wise, and above all, _hungry_, smile of the dragon. "Certainly you're a little fellow, and a quiet one, but that alone should not have hid you from me." He tapped his pipe against his palm, his mind racing behind his eyes. "No, I saw at once that you must have been invisible. But it's obvious that you have no magical abilities of your own, so the magic must have come from an outside source. Dwarves are not known for their magic, and there was no one else with you at the time, so it must have been a magical object. And in all of Middle-earth, the most likely source of such magic would be a ring. And not just any ring."

Bilbo stared at him in growing terror and horror, and the dragon's glowing eyes bore into his frightened ones for a long moment. Then suddenly he smiled, and was Sherlock again, and Smaug no longer, and a shadow seemed to pass from the room. "Are you satisfied now that you hobbits are not quite as infallible as you pretend?"

The hobbit still looked uneasy, shifting his eyes away from the dragon. "All right, you've made your point. Now what?"

"Now I need to know details. Next of kin, the disposal of their estate, enemies, dalliances." Smaug sprawled out in the chair again and refilled his pipe.

"Easy enough," Bilbo replied, relaxing somewhat, but he remained where he was near the door. "They've left everything in the care of the Master of Brandy Hall to be given to their son Frodo when he comes of age."

Smaug raised a single brow. "Frodo? The child?"

Bilbo nodded. "Poor little fellow. They'll take care of him well enough at Brandy Hall, but it's likely to be a bit lonely. There aren't many children his age for him to muck about with."

"Mmm." He closed his eyes, smoking in silence for several minutes. "Enemies? Problems?"

"No hobbit has enemies," Bilbo declared primly. "They simply have friends and relations they like more or less than others."

The dragon sighed, and a plume of smoke drifted ceilingward. "Anyone who cared a little less for dear Drogo and Primula?"

Bilbo hesitated. "I… I'll see what I can find out." He rubbed his eyes wearily. "All this has made me a trifle peckish. Do you want anything?" He turned toward the kitchen.

"No." Smaug answered, abstracted. "I—"

"—don't eat when you're working," Bilbo sighed. "I remember." He headed down the hall and left his friend to his contemplations.

* * *

The dragon stared into the fire, the blaze reflected in his eyes. The little hobbit clearly had no idea what he had. He wasn't sure himself; but some instinct in him, whether it was his old dragonish inclinations or something else, older, deeper, told him it was dangerous. And powerful.

Mysteries upon mysteries here in the Shire. But, like the one surrounding his identity, it would keep until he had finished with his present case. There were just one or two points that were suggestive…

And the lad. Frodo. The child who had seen him and not been afraid. He wanted to have another look at the child as well.


	4. Mischief and Mushrooms

_I did a bit of research and it occurred to me that Buckland is rather a long way from Bag End. Therefore, to effect such quick travel between the two it is necessary for Bilbo and Sherlock to utilize ponies and horses, and I have modified the previous chapters accordingly. _

_~ Olrendis  
_

* * *

IV: Mischief and Mushrooms

Smaug was gone when Bilbo awoke. A hastily scrawled note in the dragon's forceful script read,

_Gone to Buckland. Back later._

_S_

Shaking his head, Bilbo made himself a breakfast. It would take most of the morning and into the afternoon for him to travel back to Buckland, even with the rented pony, and despite his good health and constitution it was more than he cared to make on a daily basis.

But he remembered the hobbit-lad. Frodo was depending on him, and after he had supped he went round to the stable to collect his pony and return to Brandy Hall.

* * *

Smaug ducked under a low-hanging tree branch that no one had bothered to cut; it wasn't low enough to affect a hobbit, even a hobbit on a pony. For the dragon mounted on horseback, however, even ducking the leaves managed to ruffle the dark curls of his hair.

He dismounted, and led his horse on foot along the wooded path. There was a rustle, and suddenly something burst up over the edge of the causeway and crashed headlong into him. Beside him, the horse reared, startled, and the dragon tumbled over the edge of the causeway.

He landed on his back in the marshy, wet ground below the causeway, and his attacker landed on top of him with a light _thump_. He blinked, and stared up into a pair of startling blue eyes.

Little Frodo Baggins looked down at him in dismay. "Mister Wizard! I'm terribly sorry—" Sounds of pursuit—barking, yells, and the sounds of feet—caused a look of panic to cross his face. "They're after me!"

He scrambled off the dragon's chest as quickly as he could, but before he could dash off again Smaug had him by the collar. "Hold on. Who's after you?"

The boy didn't have time to answer, though, as the noises grew closer and a loud voice roared, "He can't have gotten far, lads. Find him!"

Frodo's eyes widened with terror, and he ducked beneath the dragon's cloak, pulling it around himself and out of sight.

Smaug didn't have time to react before a broad, thick-set, scowling hobbit appeared on the causeway above them, surrounded by a trio of snarling dogs, who leapt down and growled menacingly. The hobbit stopped up short at the sight of the ex-dragon, however, and scratched his head. "Grip! Fang! Wolf! Heel!" The dogs reluctantly stopped up short and returned to their master's side, still growling low in their throats as they watched him. "Well, you're no hobbit. What brings you to these parts?"

The dragon took in the hobbit with a glance. Dirt under the fingernails, hair from three different dogs (but that was easy), married, five children, at least one girl and one boy. "Just passing through, Farmer…?"

"Maggot," the hobbit supplied, still frowning. "What are you doing down there, if I may ask?"

He could feel the tiny hobbit-child clutching his leg beneath the cloak, trembling. "Dropped my pipe," he heard himself saying. "Something startled my horse."

"Ah, that'd be my dogs, like as not." Maggot rubbed the head of the closest one absently. "You haven't seen anyone else go by here, I suppose?"

"I saw no one before you and your dogs startled my horse and we arrived at this moment," Smaug answered. "Looking for someone?"

"No, no." The farmer was still frowning, but he grudgingly stepped back from the edge of the causeway. "Sorry to trouble you. Come on, lads." He turned, and the dogs slunk off behind him.

The dragon listened for several minutes as their steps faded into the distance, then opened his cloak and glanced down at the child between his legs. "I don't know what that was about, but I will." He scooped Frodo up in one arm and climbed back up onto the causeway.

His horse was a short distance off, past the grove of trees, watching them warily. Smaug's approach was slow and reassuring, and when he reached him he rubbed the stallion's forehead, murmuring softly. "Nadínen, Gwaelith. Shh, nadínen."

The little hobbit watched with wide eyes as the horse nickered softly and nuzzled Smaug's hand. Once Gwaelith was calm again, the dragon lifted Frodo onto its back. There was no saddle or bridle, so the boy gripped the horse's neck tightly. "You won't fall," Smaug reassured him. "Now I want the story." He twisted and turned to survey the muddy water caking the back of his cloak with displeasure, and then climbed up behind him. "The _whole_ story."

The child's answer was simplicity itself. "Well, I was picking mushrooms in Farmer Maggot's fields when he nearly caught me, and I ran. Then I bumped into you, and we fell down, and old Maggot caught us." Frodo's voice still had a slight tremor in it. "I thought they were going to eat me for sure."

The dragon hid a smile, but his voice was stern. "Do you mean to say I have been harboring a common thief?"

The child squirmed in his seat. "Are you going to tell the Shirriffs?"

"Are you going to do it again?"

"N-no, but—"

"Show me the contraband." The child produced a fistful of mushroom heads, big and firm and earthy-smelling, as many as he could cram into his tiny pockets.

"This is quite serious," Smaug said gravely. "If word gets out that I've been aiding and abetting a known criminal…" He pretended to consider the matter. "Under the circumstances, the best thing to do would be to speak of this to no one. We must destroy the evidence, however." His eyes twinkled. "We'll bring these to your Uncle Bilbo. His stuffed mushrooms are excellent…"

Frodo's face brightened considerably, and he perked up. "Thank you, Mister Wizard."

The dragon frowned. "Why do you call me that?"

"You're tall and queer, like Mister Gandalf," the lad explained innocently. "And everyone says he's a wizard, so I thought you probably were too." He looked up at his rescuer speculatively. "Are you?"

"I…" Smaug's eyebrows knit together, again beset by the question of identity. "I suppose it's as good a word for me as any."

Frodo nodded. "I thought so." He settled back against the dragon, who guided the horse with a word and a touch, up the path to the bridge and back to Brandy Hall.


	5. Symmetry

V: Symmetry

Bilbo emerged from Brandy Hall, exasperated and a bit bemused. He found Smaug lounging beneath a tree while Gwaelith grazed nearby. "I don't know what you told Frodo, but he's behaving just a bit odd. He gave me these mushrooms, and…" he broke off as the dragon began chuckling, and frowned. "I don't see what's so funny about it."

"It doesn't matter. Come, I've leased a house in Bucklebury until we've cleared this matter up." The dragon rose, and whistled a low, clear note. Gwaelith trotted over and nuzzled his chest, and after returning the affection, he glanced at Bilbo. "It's not far, if you'd like to walk."

The hobbit trod alongside the dragon and his horse, and they crossed the lane which ran beside Brandy Hall to find the town of Bucklebury sprawling across the hillside. "You'll have to inquire after the keys at the house over there. I told the landlord that I was acting on the behalf of Mr. Baggins, and though he was quite suspicious, he agreed to turn over the keys to you when you arrived."

Bilbo looked annoyed. "What else have you been dropping my name to get ahold of, I wonder?"

Smaug shrugged. "It's not as useful as you'd think. Apparently you have quite the reputation, and not entirely in a good way." A smirk tweaked the corners of his mouth. "Consorting with queer, outlandish folk and gallivanting off into the Wild has turned you queer yourself… that's if you actually returned at all."

"I've heard the rumors." The hobbit scowled. "I shall have to settle those Sackville-Bagginses once and for all, or I shall never have any peace."

"You're not afraid that continuing your association with me will tarnish your reputation further?" Smaug questioned idly, though he watched the hobbit intently out of the corner of his eye.

"Nonsense. It can't very well get any worse than it already has." Bilbo dismissed the question with a wave of his hand. "Besides, things were getting frightfully dull. My poetry was becoming quite stagnant."

"Mm." Smaug had stopped listening after the first words, sinking deeper into thought. Bilbo sighed, and went up to the house to get the key.

The hobbit who opened the door eyed Bilbo suspiciously. "How long will you be wanting to stay, Mr. Baggins?"

"Oh, just a few days." Bilbo said lightly. The hobbit grudgingly fumbled in his pockets and produced a key, and Bilbo paid him, with quite a bit to spare. "Keep the change." He didn't add, _for possible damages_.

The dragon stood in the lane where Bilbo had left him, one hand resting on Gwaelith's shoulder as the stallion grazed. He still bore the same abstracted expression that meant he was lost in thought, but his focus returned momentarily to the present as his friend approached. "Key?" He caught the keyring that the hobbit tossed in his direction, and abruptly began walking swiftly down the path.

Bilbo trotted faster to keep up with him. In the absence of any conversation from his companion, he began half humming a few bars of poemsong under his breath, puzzling out rhymes and melody. "…_his javelins were of stalactite_… _he brandished them_. Stalactite," he mused. "Stalactite and… icicle? No. Stalagmite? better… Banner white?"

"Malachite."

Bilbo blinked, startled by the sonorous voice. "Sorry, what?"

The dragon closed his eyes wearily, as though he could not believe he had allowed himself to be dragged into this. "Malachite is a copper carbonate hydroxide that can form acicular prisms of a greenish tint. Appropriate for use as a projectile by a tiny faery-man like your mariner." His lip twitched. "It also produces rhythmic resonance with the word stalactite."

"Oh." Momentarily taken aback by Smaug's involvement, he nonetheless recovered quickly and accepted the suggestion. "_His javelins were of malachite and stalactite—he brandished them. _Yes, yes that will work." He continued chattering about poetry for several minutes until the dragon stopped abruptly, and the hobbit stumbled. "Sherlock, what—"

"This is the place." It was a low, quaint hobbit-house, not a hole like Bag End, but with the familiar round doors and windows that hobbits preferred. Smaug stooped to unlock the door, ducked his head to enter, and Bilbo followed.

The dragon discarded his cloak and scarf, hanging them on a hook by the door. He brushed off the sleeve of his navy blue button-down shirt absently, and scowled as he narrowly avoided a close encounter with a ceiling beam, and muttered irritably, "_Hobbits_."

Bilbo dropped his walking stick into the stand by the door and headed past him into the kitchen, where he safely deposited the mushroom contraband. "We're going to need to do a bit of shopping," he called, rummaging through the cupboards.

"Mmm."

The hobbit took a basket from the countertop and entered the living area. "Sherlock, I'm going into town. Do—" Smaug was sprawled out before the fire, head tilted back, eyes closed. His pipe drooped from one hand, forgotten. Bilbo watched him for a moment and sighed, then took his walking stick from the stand and left the house.

* * *

Half an hour later, the dragon spoke. "I need some paper."

Otherwise, he didn't stir, and didn't repeat his request. He required these spells of perfect stillness, silence, and solitude to allow his thoughts time to sort themselves out. It was the same process ordinary people's minds undertook while sleeping, but for him it was a highly controlled, conscious process in which he filtered through all his experiences for data with long-term potential and carefully filed it away in his tool shed. Information of short-term relevance he kept in the surface of his memory, to be purged when it was no longer useful. Presently he would act, but until John passed him what he required he would continue to command his thoughts to sort themselves out.


	6. Temper and Temptation

VI: Temper and Temptation

Bilbo perused Banks's General Store, picking out a good cheese, and some tomatoes, carrots, and other vegetables. He tried to politely ignore the looks and whispers of other hobbits as he passed; rumors about his lease of a house in Buckland were already spreading, as well as curiosity about the queer Big Person seen in his company.

A couple of younger hobbits, barely in their tweens, were giggling and whispering to each other in the next aisle over.

"I wonder why old Mad Baggins would take an interest now? I've never seen him in these parts before."

"Him and Drogo were cousins, you know. And me mam said that she saw that big chap having a talk with wee Frodo in the lane earlier."

"No! What would a Big Person want with Frodo?"

"He showed up right after Drogo and Primula were drownded, didn't he? And he was nosing around, prying and asking questions. Up to no good, if you ask me."

"Drogo had plenty of hobbit-sense, my dad says. He brought little Frodo down here away from that queer Hobbiton lot, after all. Maybe that's why—"

Bilbo narrowed his eyes, squared his shoulders, and stepped around the corner. He cleared his throat loudly. "Excuse me."

The hobbit-lasses gasped, and tittered nervously. "Good afternoon, Mister Baggins." One of them nudged the other, and then they dashed out of the store.

Scowling, Bilbo finished gathering the provender they'd need to be comfortable in Bucklebury, and took it up to the counter to pay.

"Evening, Mister Baggins." The cheery daughter of the proprietor bustled around the counter. "Found everything to suit you, I hope."

"Yes, thank you, Miss Banks." Bilbo produced several coins from the pocket of his trousers and paid her. He hesitated a moment, then asked, "Er, I don't suppose you have any plans for dinner tonight?"

The pretty woman laughed, and her eyes twinkled merrily. "Why, Mister Baggins. Are you making conversation or extending an invitation?

"Both of them at once." His fingers fumbled nervously with the contents of his pockets, and he offered her a weak grin. "Which do you prefer?"

"As it happens…" She finished wrapping up his groceries and replaced them in his basket. "I'll be serving at the Silver Buck this evening if you'd care to stop by for a drink." She folded several mushroom scones into a clean handkerchief and tucked them into the basket with a wink. "See you soon, Mister Baggins."

* * *

The dragon stirred as Bilbo entered, and sniffed the air slightly. "What's that?"

"Er, scones." The hobbit fumbled in the basket for a moment. "Picked up some—"

"Gold-digger." He settled back into his chair and closed his eyes again.

"Sorry, what?" Bilbo straightened, frowning.

"Well, obviously she's after your money." Smaug answered absently. "A confirmed bachelor, well-preserved though he may be, would hardly attract the attention of a pretty girl. But she gives you scones and encourages your attention, so of course there must be some other attraction. Money and status are the most likely, though somewhat offset by your checkered reputation."

"Right," the hobbit said bitterly. "Naturally any girl who takes an interest in me must have some sort of ulterior motive." He tossed a pouch in the general direction of Smaug's chair. "Here. Got you a little something while I was out."

The dragon plucked it out of the air as Bilbo tossed it toward him. "What kind?"

"Old Toby. The finest weed in all the Southfarthing. Don't smoke anything else, myself." He went into the kitchen and began putting things away. "If you've decided you're hungry yet—"

"No time. I've got to go out." Smaug filled his pipe and lit it with a breath. He appeared in the kitchen a few minutes later, cloak wrapped 'round him once more. "Coming? I need to know what you've learned from the hobbits."

Bilbo looked cross. "Sherlock, I've only just got in. I've missed tea, and—"

"Oh." The dragon paused for a moment. "I'll be back in a few hours, then." He brushed past the hobbit and bumped into a collection of hanging pots and pans with a clamor. Smaug stumbled into Bilbo and knocked him headlong onto the floor. Immediately the dragon bodily lifted the stout little fellow and set him back on his feet. "Sorry. Bloody pots."

He vanished through the back door, and Bilbo stood for a moment, dumbfounded, staring at where he had been. Smaug's uncharacteristic clumsiness and subsequent apology left him perplexed; but then a great many strange things had been taking place of late.

* * *

The dragon paced along the riverbank, his brow creased. It had been simple – trifling really. His old friend was so obvious in his habits, and the rest was mere sleight of hand. He tossed the small gold band into the air and caught it again, and it glinted in the sunset. He had acted almost on impulse, but in actuality the thought process leading to the decision had been blindingly fast. He needed the information and he couldn't wait for Bilbo to get around to sharing it. He could pick the hobbit's pocket without his being the wiser, so it would be child's play to replace it when he was done.

He paused for a moment, staring into the water where Drogo and Primula had drowned. A shadow fell on his heart, and he turned slowly.

Standing on the road near the bridge was an old man clad in grey. Bushy eyebrows stuck out beyond the brim of his pointed blue hat, and they were knit together in a frown above piercing blue eyes. He leaned heavily on a wooden staff twisted and gnarled like an uprooted sapling.

Smaug drew in a sharp breath, and exclaimed, "Olórin!"

The wizard inclined his head slightly, and spoke. "Alatar. What have you done?"


	7. Old Grievances, Ancient Magic

VII: Old Grievances, Ancient Magic

Bilbo made himself a light dinner, and afterward cheerfully made his way down to the Silver Buck, refusing to let the dragon dampen his spirits. The inn was lively with lights ablaze, and Miss Ida Banks winked at him as he stepped inside and made his way to the bar. "Hullo, there, Mr. Baggins. Stopped by for a drink after all?"

"Er, yes." He hopped up onto a stool, smiling at the hobbit-woman. "I could do with a bit of Brandy Wine, if you don't mind."

She went 'round the counter and poured him a glass herself. "Planning on staying long, Mr. Baggins?"

He sipped at the wine appreciatively. "I might, at that."

* * *

The dragon and the wizard remained where they stood, silently watching each other. The wizard's expression was stern, though in it could be glimpsed traces of surprise and doubt. The dragon was perfectly still, his features betraying no trace of emotion. The nigh-imperceptible movements of his eyes and brows alone revealed the thoughts racing along at the speed of light.

Finally, the dragon spoke, his low, resonant voice cutting through the night air. "You are referring to Bilbo's ring."

The wizard suddenly looked very tired. "That is but the most pressing concern in a long chain of worries." He gestured to the road before him, and after a moment, the dragon joined him, and they began walking back to Bucklebury. "You must return the ring to Bilbo at once."

The dragon frowned. "I need it to solve a case. I'll give it back when I'm done."

"Alatar." The wizard's voice changed; suddenly it contained all the strength and danger of tempered steel. "You do not know what you are meddling with; this thing is not some trifle to be played with and discarded. It is a Great Ring."

"A..." The dragon raised an eyebrow, meeting the wizard's eyes for a moment. "Yes. Of course. I sensed it last night."

The wizard nodded, once. "You are many things, Alatar, but you are not a fool. Put it back."

"I... cannot do that." The dragon quickened his pace, striding past him.

His shoulder was caught suddenly in a vice-like grip, and he was whirled around. The wizard stared at him, hard, and his eyes narrowed suddenly. "I sense the mark of dragon-spell upon you. Broken, but not undone."

The dragon snorted, and smoke jetted out from his nostrils. "You must be slipping. Even _Bilbo_ took only a moment or two to figure it out."

"Bilbo? But how..." The wizard released him suddenly. "Smaug."

The dragon inclined his head slightly with a smirk. "At your service, as the saying goes." The wizard's brow knit together, and the dragon laughed. "What did you think I had been doing for two thousand years, sitting about and twiddling my thumbs?"

"I believed you to be carrying out your purpose," the wizard said slowly. "But you mean to tell me..."

"Well, not entirely for two thousand years," the dragon admitted with a shrug. "But long enough. It wasn't all fun and games, of course. The last couple of centuries, sitting around on a pile of gold taking potshots at lakemen? Dull." His eyes gleamed once more with dragonish light. "And now you want me to abandon the most fun I've had in a millennia?"

The wizard took a step back. "What madness and treachery is this? What whispers of the Enemy ensnared you, Alatar?"

"The Enemy has no hold over me, not anymore," the dragon snapped. "I cast off his shackles long ago. I am free, now, and no one, not even you, wizard, can stop me."

"Perhaps," the wizard admitted gravely, bringing his staff to bear before him. "But in remembrance of what you once were, I must try."

"_Please_. As if I do not know your hand in my destruction long before this," the dragon sneered. "Sending your little party of dwarves to camp on my doorstep and supplant me. Setting Bilbo on me as your spy. Ever I have been a puppet, of Oromë, of Curumo, of Mairon, but no more." He opened his fist, revealing the band of gold resting on his palm. He held it up to the light, and stretched out a finger. "Let's see why you are so desperate to reclaim this bauble."

At last the wizard moved, and his staff struck out with lightning speed. The blow landed on the dragon's wrist with a resounding _crack_, sending the ring flying into the grass. Furious, the dragon turned on him, but the wizard held up a hand outstretched alongside his staff. He spoke, and his voice deepened, resounding with authority and power. "Alatar, who was Celírind the Blue, who was the dragon Smaug, by the power of the Secret Fire of our order I bind you, until such a time as you shall be healed from the spell of madness the Enemy has wrought upon you."

The dragon's eyes blazed, teeth bared in a snarl, as his will strove against the wizard's. Suddenly there was a flash of light, and the dragon buckled, sinking to the ground at the feet of the wizard. "Olórin…"

"Rest, brother," the wizard murmured gravely, and he bent over the dragon, sealing him in sleep. He stooped, his eyes scanning the grass on either side of the path, and drew out a handkerchief. He carefully retrieved the ring, wrapped it in the cloth, and laid it away. Then he turned to survey the dragon where he had fallen, wearily shaking his head. "What befell you and Pallando in the east, my old friend?"

* * *

_Author's note: _

_A thousand apologies for my long dormancy. Finals, work, and life have interfered with my posting, but, fortunately, Cumbersmaug has never been far from my thoughts (or my pen), and with the release of _The Hobbit _and the advent of a new year I finally have a moment to sit down and upload some things. I've been working up to the big reveal at the end of this chapter for some time, although I didn't realize at first that it would go down quite like this. This chapter, I believe, concludes Act I of this narrative. There will be an Interlude between this and the beginning of Act II, which so far seems to be experiencing a reversal of Act I's chapter structure. Thanks to all those who've read and/or reviewed, I'm glad to know you enjoy the story!_


	8. Interlude

_Interlude_

The wizard stood before the fire, smoking, his brow creased with thought and worry. The flames glinted occasionally in his piercing eyes, and he closed them slowly as he heard the busy, high-spirited sounds of his old friend coming home.

The hobbit's cheerful whistling gave way as he stepped inside, calling, "Sherlock! Hullo there!" He stepped into the living room and came up short, staring. "Gandalf, what...?"

The wizard turned, and bent to embrace his old friend. "Bilbo. It is good to see you again." He patted the little fellow on the back, and dropped the ring, suddenly very heavy, back into his pocket.

"Gandalf, I– I am glad to see you, but... what are you doing here?" the hobbit's brow creased slightly.

The wizard smiled gently. "I might ask you the same question, but I needn't. The same thing brought both of us here, as it did on that first morning long ago."

The hobbit grew pale. "Smaug. You... you know?"

"He is not Smaug, not truly. Not anymore." The wizard turned back to the fire, gazing moodily into the flames. How much to tell him? How much did he already know, or guess? "He has changed. Whether for good or ill, I do not know, but he is dangerous. I need to bring him to Rivendell, and swiftly."

"Right." The hobbit drew a deep breath, and said determinedly, "Let me just get my things, and we can be off."

The wizard arched a bushy eyebrow, partly in amusement and partly in wonder, though truly nothing should surprise him about the hobbit anymore. "My dear Bilbo..."

"No use trying to talk me out of it," the little fellow shook his head. "He's my friend, and I want to help."

"Very well," the wizard agreed, unexpectedly. "I see you have quite made up your mind, and I will be glad of the company."

Together the put out the fire and closed up the house. The key was returned to the very sleepy and confused landlord, and the wizard helped his diminutive companion up onto the seat of his waggon.

The hobbit glanced over rim of the seat as he clambered in. The dragon lay in the waggon-bed, very still, his eyes closed as if in sleep. He sighed, and settled in beside the wizard, who urged the horse forward into the cool night air with a soft verbal command. Despite the excitement, it wasn't long before the hobbit drifted to sleep, nestled against the wizard's rough, worn cloak. The grey wanderer chuckled softly, and lit his pipe. The road ahead of them was long.

* * *

"Gandalf?"

"Yes?" The wizard felt the hobbit stir beside him.

"What's going to happen to him?" The hobbit's voice was sleepy; dawn was just beginning to creep over the distant hills.

He pondered the question in silence. What would happen depended upon a number of factors; the strength of the Enemy's spell, the strength of the dragon's will, and the combined strength of he and Elrond to overcome the enchantment. "I do not know. He has been a dragon for nearly an Age, and it will be difficult for him to break free of his old ways. But he was not always so."

The hobbit looked up at his companion curiously. "What was he before?"

It was a long moment before the wizard answered. "Before... he was a dear friend."

* * *

There had been a time when things were different. Long, long ago, perceived now as through clear water: imperfectly, but filled with light.

It was a time full of fear, as the Shadow had begun to stretch across the lands of Middle-earth once more, but also of hope, and there was gladness amongst the five who prepared to make the Long Journey. Still fair of form, they waited just outside Máhanaxar whilst the Valar conferred amongst themselves. Curumo, clad in fair white garments that contrasted sharply with the blackness of his hair, paced impatiently, eager to be gone. He paused suddenly, his back to the others, and said slowly, "My lady Varda was most intent upon your presence amongst us, Olórin, despite your reluctance. You must have special gifts indeed."

The fair-haired, grey-clad Olórin smiled faintly and shook his head. "Nay, there is nothing special about me. Indeed I know not why Lord Manwë and Lady Varda called upon me, for I have no special art at all. But the Children of Eru are dear to me indeed, and I would aid them if I can."

Then Alatar, who sat nearby, his long, pale fingers steepled beneath his chin, stirred. A striking figure even among the Maiar, he kept his dark, curly hair cropped somewhat shorter than the style preferred by the elves, and wrapped himself in a travelling cloak the color of the night sky. "Is it not obvious, Curumo?"

Curumo turned on him, and his dark eyes glittered. "Enlighten me, Alatar. You were, after all, chosen for your powers of observation, not I."

"No, you were obviously chosen for your tinkering. Doubtless your machines and gadgetry will be of great aid to the Children, but that alone will not win for us the war we fight. We must each use our gifts, such as they are, to combat Sauron in our own ways." His blue eyes flickered toward the distractible Aiwendil. His simple brown tunic matched his hair, and he was twittering softly to a swallow, perched on his finger, in its own tongue. "Some more than others."

The eyes of Curumo grew colder, but he said, "You have spoken well. And doubtless you know your own plan already?"

"I? Yes, I know what Oromë would have me do." He closed his eyes again and settled back against the tree. "Pallando and I are passing into the far East. There are a number of Children there who have long dwelt under the Shadow, and they will need help if they are to resist." A smirk played across his lips. "Exposing darkness with the light of truth is my specialty."

Pallando, clad in a pale blue hunting tunic, had been standing quietly beside his friend. He now added in soft tones, "I have travelled with Oromë far afield in Middle-earth, hunting the Enemy's abominations." He twirled a long, feathered arrow between his fingertips. "Many of the Children in the East are unprepared for these perils. Someone should enlighten them."

Curumo was silent for a moment, studying the others with his keen, inscrutable gaze. "And what is your plan, Olórin?"

"I… do not know." The youngest of the Five admitted. "My lord and lady have not revealed to me their minds. I have walked often among the Eldar, unseen. But I would go to all the peoples of Middle-earth now, and learn of them, and them of me, if I may. Perhaps then I shall know how best to aid them." He had been watching Aiwendil with his bird throughout their conversation, and now he called to him, "Has Yavanna told you aught of her intent, Aiwendil?"

Aiwendil gave a last caress to the swallow, and set it aloft before rejoining the group. "What? Oh. Well, the Shadow affects not only the Children of Eru, but those of Yavanna as well. They become sick, twisted, corrupted, and dangerous. I have some affinity for such creatures, and I… I think that is why she chose me." He smiled then, shyly, glad of having been chosen by the Giver of Fruits.

Curumo seemed to come to a decision then, and fixed his gaze on his blue-clad brethren. "I am of a similar mind to Oromë; the Enemy's power has ever been strongest in the East and the far North. I already have given mind to a number of devices that may prove useful in driving back Sauron's influence." He looked at Alatar intently. "Perhaps our paths will intersect."

Alatar opened a single eye, then. "Perhaps."

Aiwendil looked downcast. "Alas, Curumo, I had hoped that we might travel together. My lady Yavanna—"

A flicker of annoyance flashed across Curumo's face, but only Alatar and Olórin perceived it. "Of course," he said smoothly, granting the younger Maia a magnanimous smile. "At least as far as the bounds of Middle-earth. Aulë would have it no other way."

Further conversation between them was silenced by the arrival of Eönwë, who inclined his noble head to the Five. "They are ready for you now."

Alatar rose, and caught Olórin's eye. No words had passed between them, but the Maia of Oromë had perceived at once the latter lingered behind the others out of apprehension. He clasped Olórin on the shoulder, in a rare display of warmth, and together they entered the Ring of Doom.

* * *

It was some days before they passed over the Ford of Bruinen and entered Imladris at dusk. The wizard sent at once for Elrond Halfelven, and they spoke together in hushed voices.

"My Lord Elrond," the wizard began formally in old Quenya, a language seldom spoken in Middle-earth now. "I come seeking your aid, for no one save yourself, or perhaps the Lady Galadriel, now has the skill to assist me in this matter."

The elf looked surprised at the use of the ancient tongue, but replied in kind. "I am at your disposal, Mithrandir. What has happened?"

The wizard cast a hand toward the waggon, and said gravely, "A terrible evil. I have brought a member of my Order, ensnared by the Enemy. Dragonspell is upon him, of the kind to twist his very thought and being, and must be undone, lest he wreak further mischief."

Elrond's brows drew together sharply, and upon his command the Last Homely House became a hive of activity. He gave orders for a sickroom to be prepared for the slumbering dragon, with a guard set upon it day and night, and elves were constantly coming and going with messages, herbs, and old tomes brought up from the library.

It was with some reluctance that the wizard withdrew into the sickroom with Elrond and shut the hobbit out, but the danger was great and would need all of their skill to overcome. He would not risk the little fellow's life, no matter how eager he was to remain by the side of his friend. If they were successful, all would be well, and if they were not, it would be better that the hobbit was not present when they did what they must.

* * *

The hobbit watched quietly, his eyes very grave. The dragon hadn't stirred for days, except when old Gandalf and Master Elrond had been with him. They didn't let the hobbit in the room while they worked, but he could be both silent and unobtrusive when he wished, even among the elves, and his ears were good. He heard his old friend snarling, thrashing as both Elrond and Gandalf spoke, usually in elvish. He caught a word here and there, but not enough to piece together what was happening. Occasionally he heard the wizard's voice raised, sharp and stern, in a language like to the elvish he knew, but clearer, sharper, more lovely and more sad; beautiful and familiar, yet utterly alien.

When they left him, however, the dragon was silent, sleeping a troubled sleep once more, and Bilbo was allowed to return. He sat by the bed, his chin cupped in his hand, weary but stubborn. He didn't know what had happened, or why, or how. But this was his friend, and their adventure, and he refused to consider the possibility that he wouldn't get better.

And still nothing changed.

* * *

_Happy birthday, Sherlock! A little late in posting, but I wanted to honor our favorite detective with these vignettes about him from the Middle-earthians who care about him most._


End file.
